Metamorphosis
by Nightvision55
Summary: Justin's weird. Brian's POV - post Ethan. Warnings for language


METAMORPHOSIS

It's not easy, living with someone. I suspect it isn't easy for anybody, gay or straight, which is why nearly everyone fucks it up. Which is also why I've always refused to have anything to do with the idea, why I still won't admit it's actually what I am doing – what I _have_ been doing for quite a while, now. But it's 2 o'clock in the morning, there's only us here, and he's asleep anyway. So I don't have to wear the mask.

It's _really_ not easy when you're 31 and you've never lived with anyone since you left home for college…although I'm not sure that having been part of my particular fucked-up family would count in the first place. Personally, I'd vote no on that one.

That's why I've always loved Mikey – because he's the only one who was there; who saw what it was like for me back then. That's why he's the only one who _really_ understands what made my mind work like it does now, and why he always makes allowances. Because he shared things with me that no-one else did; things that no-one else ever can. It's the reason why neither of us has ever been able to let go.

The thing is, I always like to be in control – to understand the rules so that I can always get the maximum advantage; and if I'm the one who set out those rules in the first place, then so much the better.

So my life has always been a series of separate but inter-linking compartments – you can walk from one to another, but none of the contents get mixed up. There's the Work Compartment, the Mikey Compartment, the Babylon Compartment (a fucking big one that), even the Linds and Gus Compartment – small, okay, but still on the map. Everything simple and uncomplicated and controllable, no part interfering with any other. Everything in its proper place.

Christ. No wonder Justin calls me anal.

I had a special Compartment for him, too; a nice cosy one, full of toys and games to keep him amused, all the things that little twink hearts delight in. All he had to do was stay there.

Unfortunately for me, Justin was working to his own set of rules, and they didn't include Compartments. He was into sharing; sharing his joy, his misery, his love, with everyone he cared for. He didn't see it as a weakness that he displayed his emotions so openly and unashamedly - he never felt the need to hide them. And suddenly I found that he was _spreading _in the most alarming way – a sort of twink virus in the system.

He started popping up in Compartments where he had no business being. I'd be in the middle of a major presentation to a potential client, and suddenly I'd find myself worryingly distracted by images of Justin instead. I'd be at the gym or at Woody's hanging out with Mikey and the boys, and I'd find myself actually missing the kid's company. Or I'd be getting a blow job in the back room at Babylon and realize that I was comparing the trick to Justin, and wishing the guy could give anywhere near such spectacular head.

That was when I started getting seriously pissed with the situation. I could just about tolerate the little twat infecting my work and social life, but my sex life was an entirely different matter – I'd be damned if I'd let him get away with that. So I decided to take things in hand and make a concerted effort to stuff him back in his Compartment and lock the fucking door – with a few bars and padlocks added for good measure.

Hence the episode of Ian the fiddler.

Well, I learned my lesson there. I know when we got back together it was at Justin's request and on my terms, but really that was just posturing. If keeping him around meant that I had to give the little shit the master key to my personal kingdom, well, there were worse things that could happen. I'd spent some long, lonely months discovering that painful fact. Just so long as I didn't have to actually admit it. Fuck, I still had _some_ pride.

So we worked out a balance. I still made the rules and he … _influenced _them. Kind of.

Sometimes.

I could live with that.

Even so, the practicalities of sharing my life, my space, were unsettling. It was all so new to me, and sometimes he was just so _weird_.

I don't mean weird as in the way all my friends are weird - Mikey and his inability to emotionally evolve beyond the age of fourteen; Ted and his insecurities; Emmett being … well, Emmett. Linds living with Mel, I mean, how much weirder can you get?

I mean weird as in unfathomable, the way that women or acts of God are.

Take his nut obsession for instance. Not the kind you might be thinking of, but real nuts, the ones that fall off trees.

After he was bashed, when we were going through the period when he was terrified of being out among people, I used to take him to the park a lot. It was quieter there, less chance of his being freaked; we'd just wander about for a while and he'd tell me the names of the trees and shit like that, and I'd make out I was interested – fuck, a tree's a tree, right? – but he was happy and talking, so that was okay.

It was early fall and the leaves were beginning to turn colour and drift down to the ground, and Justin was scuffing his feet through them when he suddenly stopped, stooped down and picked something up. As he held it in his hand I saw that it was a large round nut. I knew where it had come from; those big trees that Justin told me were horse chestnuts (which had made me snicker) – pretty in summer when they were covered in bunches of white flowers, and now dropping large spikey cases that held these nuts. I just didn't understand what Justin was finding so fascinating, so I asked him.

He shrugged, smiled shyly. "I don't know. Because it's beautiful?" He held it out to me.

I looked at it lying on my palm. It was a rich chestnut colour veined with whorls of ebony like an antique veneer, but it was the texture of thing that surprised me most. It was so smooth that it seemed oiled, and as I rubbed my thumb over the glossy surface I found myself wondering why I'd never really looked at one before. But still, it was only a nut.

I went to drop it, but Justin grabbed my hand and took it back; he stuffed it into his pocket.

I raised my eyebrows. "What are you going to do with that?"

Another shrug. He walked away, and as I fell in beside him he was already beginning to talk about something else.

After that, he always picked up a few whenever we were walking there. It got to the stage where almost every pocket in his pants and jackets had a couple of the things stashed in them, like he was a fucking squirrel or something. But the really weird thing was that _I _actually started picking them up too and bringing them back to the loft for him.

It would have made more sense if he'd used them for anything, but all he did was carry them around for a few days until they started to dry and darken and lose their lustre. But even then he didn't throw them away; he took them back to the fucking park and put them back where he'd found them in the first place.

Like I said, weird.

He kept one, though; he used it to exercise his weak hand, rolling it like a worry ball until it was so polished from the pressure of his fingers that it looked as though it had been varnished. He's still got it, come to think of it, tucked in the pocket of his favourite jacket. Justin's lucky nut.

So then one day he bursts through the door clutching a paper bag in one hand and a huge glass jar precariously tucked under his other arm, and even from the other side of the room I could tell he was fizzing. I walked over as he carefully set his jar on the kitchen counter – it looked like a pickle jar.

It _was _a pickle jar. The label said _Schickle's._

"I hate to tell you this, Sunshine, but if you and Mikey have been swapping preserve recipes, there is no fucking way the loft is going to end up smelling like a pickle factory."

"I got it from the diner. I have to rinse it out. Here, hold this." He handed me the paper bag he'd been holding and lifted the jar over to the sink.

Okay. We obviously weren't communicating too well. While he turned on the water and juggled the jar under the faucet, I opened the bag and peered inside. All I could see were leaves, but they didn't look like any salad I'd seen before.

Justin turned to pick up a tea towel and saw me. "Careful, Brian!" His voice rose sharply, "Don't let it escape!"

Whatfuck?

I hastily crunched the mouth of the bag shut and looked at him as he carefully dried the inside of the jar.

"Justin …"

He wasn't listening. He set the jar back on the counter, took the bag out of my hand and gently tipped the contents inside. Then he gazed intently through the glass.

His face lit like a flame. I know that's a cliché, but that's exactly what it did.

"Look, Brian! Isn't it incredible!"

I leaned closer, looked … saw a lot of green leaves … big fucking deal … and then …

Oh my fucking god.

This … thing … crawling around the bottom of the jar. Big … big … fucking caterpillar thing. All yellow and black and white bands with long black feelery things at each end. It looked like one of Gus' toys come to life. And did I mention big?

It was … fucking horrible.

"Brian … _Brian!"_ He was tugging at my arm. I waited until I was sure I had my face under control before I looked at him.

"Justin, why have you brought that crawly thing into my loft?"

"It's a caterpillar. It's going to turn into a butterfly."

I resisted the urge to kick his butt hard. "I know what it is. And I know what it turns into. What I am asking is, why is it _here_?"

He looked at me as though I was the crazy one. "So that I can watch!"

"But it'll get out, and chew holes in the rug and my shirts …"

His expression became pitying. "Those are _clothes _moths, Brian. This kind eats leaves and anyway, it can't escape as long as the lid's on."

I drew a deep breath. I hadn't forgotten the kitten spat, when he'd raised a spirited defense, surrendered ungraciously, refused to put out for three days and sulked for a week. If he _had_ to have a pet, well at least this one wouldn't scratch the furniture or pee on the rug.

Even so … the idea of that ugly thing crawling round and round all night … that was kind of creepy.

"Alright. But just so that you're aware – the first time I find it out of the jar, it's going to be a _dead_ caterpillar." I glared at him so he knew I wasn't joking.

Unfortunately he didn't notice. His nose was already pressed to the glass.

* * *

"Brian, what's wrong … can't you sleep?"

"I'm fine."

"But that's like, the third time you've got up. What do you keep checking?"

"Nothing."

"The lid's on tight, don't worry."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh. I just thought maybe that's why you keep getting up … to make sure it hasn't got out. Like maybe it crawled up the glass and held on with its suckery feet and then used the little scratchy front ones to unscrew the lid from the inside. Because it couldn't."

"Shut up."

"Really, it couldn't."

It didn't.

After a while I forgot about it, except when I saw Justin doing his daily vigil or replenishing the food supply with fresh leaves from the park. He always washed his hands carefully afterwards; he explained that the leaves were milkweed and that the sap was an irritant. The caterpillar ingested the toxin with its food and subsequently became unpalatable to predators.

Smart little twat.

Oh, and now we've got a_ poisonous_ big fucking crawling thing as a pet.

* * *

A couple of weeks later I glanced at the jar as I passed the windowsill where Justin had parked it, and stopped for a closer look. The caterpillar wasn't doing its usual eat-eat-then-eat-some-more thing; it was hanging upside down from the side of the jar. It looked kind of hunched and shrivelled.

"Uh … Sunshine. I think there's something wrong with Ian."

He came over and punched my arm, not at all playfully. "I told you to cut that out, Brian, it's _so _not funny anymore."

Well, it still worked for me.

Justin peered into the jar, and to my surprise immediately went into happy babble mode. "Ohmygod, it's going to pupate, that's just so cool, Brian, I can't believe it …"

Do you know what irritates me most about him? That sometimes I can't stop myself from smiling.

When I got back to the loft that evening the caterpillar had turned into a fat, bright green chrysalis speckled with gold.

* * *

"Brian."

"Hmmm ...?"

"Brian."

"Go 'way."

"_Brian!"_

He's shaking me. It's Sunday morning; we didn't get in until three a.m., it's not even fully light yet and he's _shaking_ me?

I rear up on my elbows, seriously pissed, but he's still tugging at me and saying _Please Brian, come and see, please_ so earnestly that I find myself dragging on a pair of sweats and stumbling down the steps after him.

He's pulled some cushions off the sofa onto the floor and is sitting on them hugging his knees and gazing at the jar, which he's set on the coffee table. He reaches up to take my hand and tugs me down beside him.

"Justin, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Shh …"

"What?"

"Look, Brian. It's started." He beams at me, then turns his attention back to the jar. He's still holding my hand.

That's it. That is definitely, absolutely IT. The little shit has dragged my ass out of bed at dawn on a Sunday to watch a FUCKING BUG HATCH! I'm deciding whether to just throw him out or murder him or both.

But then I look at his face; and he's so rapt, so intent – it's the expression he wears just before he starts to draw, when you know he's _seeing_ so much more than you can, more than you ever will – and my anger melts and I turn and try to understand.

At first I don't see anything except the chrysalis still hanging in the same way it has for the last month or so. It's a little darker than it was the last time I looked, but I otherwise it doesn't seem different. I wonder what I'm supposed to be looking at. Then my concentration focuses in a little, and I realise that the whole thing is slowly, rhythmically pulsing.

The movement is almost imperceptible, but I can see that the hard case is beginning to crack; tiny fissures are starting to open along the outlines of the head and wings and each small pulse pushes them wider. I can see the dark body beneath straining to hitch itself forward.

And then, suddenly, it stops. I glance at Justin, but he makes no sign.

"Do you think it's okay? I mean, it's not stuck?"

"No, it's just resting."

"Only, maybe we could help it with a matchstick or something."

He laughs. "What, help squash it? Just watch, Brian, it'll be fine."

It's right now I realise that he's seen this before.

So we sit, watching the butterfly slowly pull itself into the world. The head, all eyes, breaks clear first, antennae waggling; the humped body follows; the proboscis freeing itself then coiling like a watch spring; each spindly leg drawn slowly clear; and as the long abdomen finally slides free the new insect perches on the husk of its old self, and rests.

"So, where are the wings?"

"They're those baggy things on its back – it has to inflate them. That's why its body is moving … it's pumping the blood round."

"It has blood?"

"Butterfly blood."

He's right. It's like watching a balloon inflate, as the patterns stretch and grow while the wings slowly begin to unfurl.

My feet are numb. I haul myself up, leaning on his shoulder, and begin to stamp back the circulation. I can feel the first tingle of pins and needles, and Christ, I fucking hate that.

Coffee. I hobble to the kitchen, fill the percolator with water, add coffee, start it up. The clock tells me it's 6.40.

I have been sitting on the floor for nearly an hour getting fucking pins and needles on a Sunday morning watching a FUCKING BUG HATCH when I shouldn't even be awake yet.

I should be _so_ pissed.

But I'm not.

I pour the coffee, carry the mugs over and put them down on the table. Then I sit back down, on the sofa this time.

The butterfly's wings have opened a lot further now, although they're still soft and curled round the edges. They're a bright, tawny orange veined with black; and the margins are black, too, spotted with white. It's beautiful. I drink coffee while I watch.

I nudge Justin's shoulder. "Do you know what kind it is?"

He looks at me patiently. "It eats milkweed, Brian, and often butterflies are called after the plant they're associated with. So maybe you can work it out?"

I sigh. "It's a _Milkweed_ butterfly."

He nods. "It's very common."

It is?

"In Europe they call it the Monarch."

"Well, you've got to admit that's appropriate." His eyebrows go up quizzically. "Your Majesty."

He smirks. That King of Babylon shit still makes him _so _smug.

"They live in Europe too, then?"

"No. They just migrate there sometimes."

I grin at him. "What, across the fucking Atlantic?"

"That's exactly what they do. They fly right … across … the fucking … Atlantic. They're one of the longest migratory species."

"No shit." I'm seriously impressed. Those wings are like paper, I would never in a million years believe that they could survive a flight of that length; but I know better than to question Justin's word. If he's telling me that something so delicately fragile is actually as tough and as

enduring as old rope, then who am I to doubt it?

Those wings are now fully extended, probably four inches from tip to tip. The scales shimmer under the lights as the butterfly flexes them up and down.

"This is the moment to put it in a killing bottle."

I feel my mouth fall open. "What?"

"That's what collectors do. It's the only way to get a perfect specimen; hatch a pupa and put the butterfly straight in a jar of ether."

I thought about watching it emerge. That long, slow, painful struggle. Watching its wings take shape. And then I thought about killing it before it had ever lived, just because it was perfect.

"Collectors are fucking sick."

He laughs, happily agreeing.

"So, Sunshine … what _are_ you going to do with it?"

Justin stands up. He lifts the jar, carries it over to the windowsill and places it there while he wrestles with the rarely used latch. I go to help him and eventually we get the window open.

He takes the lid off the jar and reaches his hand inside, stretching down to lightly brush the butterfly's legs. And it just sort of steps on to his fingers and clings there as he brings his hand carefully back out of the jar.

For a moment he just looks at it, like he's memorising it. Then he turns, holds his hand out of the window and the butterfly is gone.

I stand beside him, watching the bright wings rise in the early sun, and I pray to the god I don't believe in that some big, black mother-fucking crow doesn't total the moment by swooping down and eating it.

I want it to fly. All the way to fucking Europe.

THE END.


End file.
